Nine People, One Path
by Ladies of the Shield
Summary: The Fellowship camp in Hollin for the night, and realize that their company is already falling apart. Third story for MEF by Lady Greenleaf (Kellie).


  
~~Nine People, One Path~~   
  
They were a motley crew. Nine Walkers, against the Nine Riders, Elrond had said. Nine Walkers! They had not gone a fortnight since Rivendell, and even now their thoughts were dull and brooding.   
  
A Wizard, Gandalf, holding a staff nearly as wizened as his face, and wearing a blue, crooked hat, was said to have powers unknown to all, but if he had, he hadn't shown them yet.   
  
A Man, Aragorn, claiming to have the sword of Elendil at his side, and the Ring of Barahir upon his hand, was a ranger, one of the wanderers, who live a nomadic life. His brooding ways and strong leadership brought them far, but he himself was over-ridden with dark, overcast thoughts.  
  
Another Man, Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, sent to find the very thing they were protecting in this Fellowship, had vowed his allegiance. You could see it in the depths of his eyes, his lust for the Bane, whose venom had poisoned his mind. He wanted to bring his city back from ruin, he claimed. But with the One Ring?   
  
An Elf, Legolas, silent, and with a bow upon his back, sent from Mirkwood on this perilous mission. Son of Thranduil, he was fair of face, and golden haired, his bow as deadly as any weapon lying in the Fellowship. Solemn but passionate, this Immortal being was ready for the shadows that awaited them all.  
  
A Dwarf, Gimli, stout in stature and heart, brandishing an Axe, and hailing from the Blue Mountains, also accompanied the Nine on their mission. Son of Gloin, he was a gruff creature, whom Legolas looked upon disdainfully, for the beings of the wood and nature, and the peoples of the mines and mountains, were not all compatible.  
  
And four, four Halflings, from the land of the Shire. Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, who had no idea how important their parts were indeed to the fate of the quest, filled the positions of two out of the nine. They were well known in the Shire, but young Pippin and Merry had come across enough hardship than most Hobbits have to deal with in their whole life already, and yet there was still worse to come.  
  
Samwise Gamgee, who didn't have much of a better idea than the others, but was loyal to his company, was a cheerful fellow despite the burdens. He brought, quite thoughtfully of him, his cooking equipment, and   
fretted each day over the overlooking of a rope. He also led Bill the Pony, a lean creature whom all had become quite attached to (especially Sam), purchased in Bree from a local scallywag.  
  
And the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, who forbears the Ring. He alone endures the untold terror, and sheer grip of the Bane that has consumed so many others before him. Frodo alone suffers the pain. Do not get me wrong, he has yet to feel it's full burden, but it has already become heavy in his mind, and within his body.  
  
* * *  
  
"How much longer until we get there?" asked Pippin wearily, stumbling along beside his cousin Merry. "I mean, till we get to this Mordor place?" The Fellowship were all silent as they trudged onwards in the lands they were walking throughout, the plains of Hollin.  
  
"How long?" asked Pippin again, a little more loudly.  
  
"They'll tell us when they're ready, Pip." muttered Merry tiredly, his eyes upon his feet in languor.  
  
"Mordor!" exclaimed Sam anxiously, leading Bill the Pony. "Mordor! I hope it won't come to that!" At this, the Fellowship stopped in its pace, and all the companions took a breath. Gandalf, a slight tic trembling   
his forehead and his face creasing in anger, turned around to the   
Hobbits in a swirl of grey cloak, his face distorted with frustration.  
  
"Be quiet, you fools!" hissed Gandalf; his angry blue eyes fixed on them, infuriated. "It does not do to speak the name of the feared land in the open plains of Eregion! Trees have eyes, and the ground has   
ears! Even though the air about Hollin be wholesome, evil has let its presence be known in each inch of the land!" For a while, his eyes wandered the plains wildly, as though he sensed an evil power at hand and ready to strike, but soon recovered and composed himself. With a last glare, he turned around again, and took up the helm of the group, leading them ever onwards. But it was evensong, and soon Aragorn glanced back at the Fellowship with pity. Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were walking at a steady pace, ever ready to keep journeying, but the Hobbits and Bill were stumbling with fatigue. He asked consent of Gandalf/  
  
"Gandalf, the little ones are weary. There is a clearing ahead, in the midst of some boulders. If we rest now, the longer we may travel in the morrow." Gandalf nodded understandingly in agreement, wiping the   
sweat from his brow.  
  
"Lead us forward," he declared in a weary but commanding voice.   
  
Aragorn led them onwards to the clearing, and, as he had said, it was in the midst of some fallen rocks. Entering the clearing one at the time, the Fellowship positioned themselves at different points in the   
clearing. Legolas nimbly stepped onto the westward rock, and gazed into the still, calm night. Aragorn stood at the entrance to the space, gazing at the hilt of his sword and fingering its sheath. Boromir, Gimli and Gandalf sat in the midst of the clearing, upon some smooth rocks. Frodo settled at the edge of the group, and Sam tended to Bill. Sighing deeply, Pippin and Merry flopped down onto a bed of soft, green moss.  
  
"Ah! For a bed!" Pippin sighed tiredly. "You know, we've not been gone from Rivendell two weeks and I miss my blankets!"  
  
"Never mind a bed!" grunted Gimli, easing himself down onto a smooth stone. "What about a fire? I miss the crackle of a warm flame!" Gandalf's brow wrinkled in memory, as though he was drawn to thoughts   
of earlier Dwarves and fire.  
  
"There may be strange creatures roaming the land. I fear that a light may draw them to us," remarked Aragorn, looking at Gandalf. The wizard chuckled.  
  
"Let them have their fire, Aragorn. I trust that you, Master Dwarf, have brought your tinder-box?" Gandalf chuckled yet again. Gimli's brow furrowed in an almost frustration. Aragorn looked disdainfully at Gimli, then motioned to Boromir.  
  
"Come, Boromir. We shall collect some kindling." Boromir nodded in agreement, and the two men left the hollow together.  
  
"Gandalf! Tell us a tale!" suggested Merry hopefully, scurrying to the Wizard's side. Pippin grinned slyly.  
  
"Yes, do!" he grinned. The Wizard shook his head no.  
  
"Now does not feel the time for me to be recounting memories," he admitted. "Master Dwarf, I'm sure, has a few tales that he could tell you." "Let me tell you of the treasures of the Dwarves!" voiced Gimli, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Wrought of gold, silver, Mithril and many other precious, superior metals and stones we mine. The most treasured Arkenstone. A beautiful white orb, a inestimable stone, worthy of more than words..." He trailed off as his eyes glazed over at the thought of it.   
  
"Bilbo told me of that," remarked Frodo, speaking for the first time. "He bribed the Dwarves with it! He kept in his pillow, and gave it to the Elves and Men, so that they could get their gold from the Dwarves!"  
Merry and Pippin were sent into gales of mirthful laughter at this. Gimli was visibly angry at the ridicule of his forefathers.  
"And a foolish little thing he was to do it!" he growled, his voice low and angry.  
  
"But it saved your Father, among others," noted Gandalf, tipping some pipeweed into his pipe.  
  
"Well, I don't know about you fellows, but having a dirty old rock as a pillow reminds me of how lucky I am to get some moss!" said Sam, drawing a blanket from Bill's saddlebag, and sitting down upon the   
soft, springy moss.   
  
"A dirty old rock indeed!" grumbled Gimli, crossing his arms stubbornly.  
  
For a while then, the Company was silent, reflecting upon past memories, and the only sense they   
shared was the aroma of Gandalf's pipeweed.   
  
* * *   
  
Meanwhile, outside the camp, Boromir and Aragorn were discussing the use of the dangerous Bane.   
  
"Don't you see, Aragorn? We could restore Minas Tirith to its former glory! We need not to commit suicide by going on this Quest!"  
  
"It is not right to even think of such things, Boromir," muttered Aragorn, kneeling down to collect some loose dry branches for tinder.  
  
"Why not, Aragorn? It was written by Isildur himself. He bequeath it unto his house and heirs!" Aragorn turned around, and looked wearily at Boromir, but his comrade interrupted.  
  
"It is a gift. Why should we not use it? And all the while it just lies there around that halfling's neck!" He thrust a faggot of wood onto the ground angrily. Aragorn looked at him, and then he picked   
up the wood and put it in Boromir's open hands.  
  
"If your motives were not as pure as Elrond believed, Boromir, why did you join this Company? If you are still thinking of destroying our Fellowship, I bid you leave." Boromir stared at Aragorn, and hate   
was in his grey eyes.  
  
"Is that a threat?" he demanded, baring his teeth in a snarl.  
  
"It is merely a suggestion. I bid you listen," expressed Aragorn, picking up one last scrap of kindling. "Come. The Dwarf wants his fire." And he set off for the clearing, Boromir following a short while later in   
annance.  
  
* * *   
  
"Finally, some warmth!" grunted Gimli as he saw Aragorn and Boromir enter the hollow cradling faggots of wood in the crooks of their arms. Legolas stepped deftly down from his post and joined them.  
  
"I suppose even Elves get cold, eh?" rumbled Gimli, looking up at Legolas in dislike.  
  
"And Dwarves would also, if they had not thick skin and skulls," Legolas retorted, looking straight back at Gimli with not a trace of amusement in his voice. Gimli muttered something under his breath, and Merry, who was at his shoulder, laughed.  
  
After many cusses from Gimli, and much deliberation on how a fire should be lit, flames were crackling merrily in the middle of the hollow, all at its side. Frodo, however, was the only one not at the   
fireside, save Boromir. He was at the edge of the clearing, still observing the Company. He could have sworn that Boromir was not his usual self, however. He pondered over this unusual behavior. Observing Boromir closely, he saw that his hand was gripping his Horn, and his eyes were on his sword. Slowly, as though sensing that Frodo was watching him, his attention traveled to Frodo's pale face, and greed was shining in his eyes. Frodo wondered at this, what could be going on in his companion's mind?   
Boromir's eyes traveled then to Frodo's chest, and there they lingered in contempt, because there, underneath his cloak, jacket, shirt, and Mithril, there lay the One Ring. Sensing Boromir's gaze, Frodo laid a hand upon his breast, and Boromir snapped his gaze from Frodo, almost ashamed, it seemed.   
  
"Well, Mister Frodo, it's a cold night, and that's the truth!" came Sam's lighthearted voice. Frodo felt his friend's frame sit beside him on the dewy grass. "Can I get you anything, Sir?"  
  
"Sam, don't call me Sir or Mister Frodo. It's just…Frodo," asserted Frodo, smiling at his friend with warm features, but his eyes frozen on Boromir's shadowy shape.  
  
"Fine…Frodo," grinned Sam, and the two friends smiled at each other, and then watched the goings-on between the Fellowship.  
  
Gimli was telling of the hospitality of the Dwarves, and making careful references to his father's imprisonment in King Thranduil's Halls. Legolas, who was sitting beside the stout creature, was trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore him. Thranduil, indeed, was Legolas' Father.  
"And my Father, Gloin, was imprisoned with twelve other Dwarves in the caves of the Elven king! Until they were rescued by Baggins, the thief, and set off downstream towards Esgaroth. Elves obviously have   
some things to learn in hospitality!" he chortled, his black eyes fixed on Legolas, who simply stared into the fire.  
  
After they had eaten a light supper, Pippin stirred at the side of Gandalf.  
  
"Gandalf, Sir? I'm tired," he exhaled, trying to stifle a huge yawn with the back of his hand.  
  
"Yes, yes. Let us retire, then. Aragorn to take first watch," assented Gandalf, arising from the rocks.  
  
* * *  
  
As the ranger gazed over the shadowy forms of the Fellowship, even his strong heart quailed over the journey. It all can be traced to Isildur, he thought bitterly. Isildur is about to ruin nine lives forevermore. He sighed and gazed out over the wild open fields of this land, which all were veiled in a blackness in the night. They were beautiful still, despite the dimness of the night. The whole surrounding scene was lovely. The grasslands were second to only that of Rohan, the horse-lord's Domain. There, the people of Rohan were content, under the rule of King Théoden. At some part in their Quest, he presumed, they would have to take the Gap of Rohan. But, still, Rohan was near to Isengard, where Saruman rules, and he, judging by Gandalf's account, is not to be trusted. Aragorn sighed grimly. The stars were unusually bright tonight; it reminded him of his engagement to the Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell. He became starry-eyed as he cast his weary mind back to that night upon Cerin Amroth.  
  
He had waited there, and she came to him despite the conflicts of the current times. Oh, her beauty was indescribable as Aragorn searched his memory for her features, and he smiled despite himself. Her eyes were that of stormy water, her hair was the evening of the night, her skin was porcelain, fair and delicate. She had gazed into his eyes as he did to her, and whispered her pledge to him, that, whatever distance be between them, they would always love each other forevermore. He had searched her eyes with his, and then he had whispered to her of the hope that he carried for them. And still their love remained, throughout the peril and evil. They were separated by race, separated by blood, separated by duty, but still their pledge held strong.  
  
Aragorn ached all over at the memory, and, though he tried to hide it, a single crystal tear slid down his dirt-streaked face. He let it be. There was no reason to keep sorrow inside, where it would surely turn to hate and misery. And more grief was being brought upon him. He did not know if Boromir could be trusted by their companions. He would surely try to take the Ring in the end, despite all else. The sheer lust Aragorn saw inside Boromir's crazed eyes for the Bane almost frightened him. He was but a foolish child, to even think of taking it for himself and his own personal use. Aragorn closed his eyes, and put his head in his hands. The grief flooded over him, sending a crisp tremor down his spine. The many scars, the miles he had walked, the people he had met, the thought's that went through his own mind... Suddenly, he felt a hand at his shoulder. It was Legolas, the Elf.  
  
"Sleep does not come," Legolas said softly, almost silently but still soothingly. "I shall take my watch now. You should rest."  
  
Aragorn nodded in wary agreement. Arising from the rock, he clapped Legolas upon the back and joined the rest of the Fellowship in their deep, uneasy slumbers.  
  
* * *  
  
"_Lomelindel, lomelindel, mankoi lind i' hwesta? Mankoi salka_," Legolas sang softly and serenely, trying to break the eerie quiet that had risen over the Company like a dark cloud during a storm. The stars, especially the Remmirath, he noted mentally, were brighter than he had ever seen them before that time. They, and the lonely moon, were the only lights that the Sky beheld. Legolas poised upon the high rock he was holding post upon. His profile was the only silhouette cast upon the bright moon. The trees about the clearing cast sinister shadows dark and beautiful, yet terrifying and exciting, all the same. Legolas, who otherwise would have remained unruffled, shivered quietly. The night was cold, and the hour was dark. He longed for his home, the forest of Mirkwood. Ah, what he would have given for a step inside the forest in which he was born. He sighed momentarily, and waited, in silent thought, until his watch was ended.  
  
* * *  
  
The next watch was Gimli's, and he was steady in his gaze over the lands. He thought not of stars and lovers, but of the Quest ahead of them. His stout heart did not quail, for he had not known such hardship as Aragorn, or as many years as Legolas. He had come all the way from the Blue Mountains to commit suicide in the evil territories of Mordor. He shrugged off the regret as he thought this over. He had volunteered himself, and his company. He couldn't turn back now and abandon this ragtag crew. Stroking his axe's blade thoughtfully, he wondered of the Fellowship. They could do with a few more Dwarves if possible, he thought, but for now, he would settle for the teasing of the Elf. He let out a soft rant of laughter as he thought of Legolas and his indignation to the Dwarf's teasing. Then, he became sincere within his own private thoughts. This was not some whim to be dreamed at home. This was real. He was about to risk his life for something he had no hand in. And, he thought, with a slight grimace, he was ready for what was   
sure to come  
  
* * *  
  
Gimli's watch was ended when Boromir's began. This now, was the last watch, and the night was waning fast. Boromir couldn't bring himself to look upon the Fellowship. He felt, in his heart, that he did not belong, but he would override his desire for the Ring. He winced as he thought of his city, the White Tower, glimmering in the morning sun, the bird's sweet song, like a million angels, the walls strong and upholding. That is how he wished it to be. But now, now it was a ruin. The White Tower still stands, but with the rest of the city in ruin and hatred; it had lost its beauty. The walls, once strong and true, now are grey, with many years of toil, stained by the tears of the nameless fear in the East. Gondor has no King; no ruler who would stop the onslaught of the people's dampened spirits. Have you ever   
watched something you love die, day by day? It is an awful thing, heartbreaking to witness, it tore him apart. Boromir sat silently, his back to the company, gazing with roving eyes upon the night's secrets. His eyes, however fast, could not catch anything in his present mind, as his head was filled with   
dark and sorrowful thoughts.  
  
Unbeknownst to all, Gandalf was not sleeping, but he was awake, and more alert than each who took the watch. He heard and sensed their sorrow, and he felt Boromir's doubt. It pained him to think that the Company were so heavy-hearted when hope was still alive, still a small light of hope glimmering. Though they be traveling farther than they ever had before, and longer than their feet should carry them, hope still glimmered. They shouldn't give up now, not whilst terror was rising and yet faith was left.  
  
The Hobbits? Why, they had no part in this stilly night. They slept, and rather soundly, if I may add, in their blankets and bed sheets. No dreams were touched by the nameless fear, no darkness but the darkness about their bodies shadowed their thoughts, and they were oblivious to the sorrows of the Men, Elf and Dwarf. And that is how it should be.  
  
* * *  
  
When Boromir's patrol was ended, it was dawn, and the new light gave a new hope in some of their hearts. The watery sun hit each of their faces with its pale warmth, and they thus awoke. Pippin was the first Hobbit to awake, and he, in turn, woke up Frodo, Merry, and Sam. Well, he tried to wake Sam, but not to much avail.   
  
"Sam!" he hissed softly, while shaking the sleeping Hobbit. "Sam! I want breakfast! You've been asleep for far too long already!" Frodo sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. Seeing an exasperated Pippin, a half-dozing Merry, and a totally unconscious Sam struck him funny somehow. He laughed lightly, and Pippin, scowling, turned to him.  
  
"If you don't mind, Frodo, could you tell me what's so funny? My stomach here's eating itself, and all the while our cook lies in bed, his toes turned up!" Frodo beamed again with humor.  
  
"Sam? Wake up!" he shook Sam, smiling at Pippin. Sam rolled over in his blankets, muttered something to himself, and pushed himself upright, propping up on his elbows.  
  
"Mister Frodo! I'll be getting breakfast now, if you don't mind." He set about doing just that. Pippin glowered at his back, which was busying itself with Bill's saddlebags.   
  
"Call me when breakfast's ready," mumbled Merry, pulling his coverings over his head. Pippin frowned at him, frustrated.   
  
"Lazy Hobbits," he muttered, stomping off to help Sam with breakfast.  
  
* * *  
  
When the Fellowship had woken up properly and fully, energized, and had eaten, they started to   
pack up their belongings. Aragorn, however, could not be found by the Fellowship. Sam loaded Bill, and the Company pulled on their cloaks, warding off some of the early morning chill. It was going to be another long day.  
  
"Wait!" cried a voice. Turning their eyes to the east rock, the Company beheld Aragorn, who was rushing down the slope. The nine turned towards him.  
  
"What is wrong, Aragorn?" asked Gandalf with concern, eyes alert.  
  
"Naught," he replied. Looking about the Company with his deep grey eyes, he sighed. "Naught, but we have not gone from Rivendell two weeks, and yet still some spirits are quailing." As he said this, he gazed upon Boromir. He continued, eyes lingering upon his fellow man. "We must remain true to our Quest. One virtue that we share is the desire for Sauron to be over-ridden. Does anyone disagree?" No dissent was made, and the Fellowship was deathly silent, wondering why Aragorn had called them together for this. He smiled resolutely at the circle of nine, and drew his sword from the sheath.  
  
"For the Fellowship of the Ring?" he besought, and turned the flat edge of his sword upright, inviting all to pledge their allegiance. Gandalf drew Glamdring from its scabbard, and lay it upon Anduríl.  
"I have been a close friend of Bilbo's since the beginning of all this," he said, his blue eyes glinting out from underneath his bushy brow. "I will do all I can, if it be by life or death, to protect each of you."  
  
Gimli pulled his axe from its sheath, and laid it on top of Anduríl and Glamdring in devotion.  
  
"You will always have the hospitality and service of the Dwarves," he promised sincerely.  
  
"And the Elves of Mirkwood," vowed Legolas, taking his bow from his back and laying it upon the other weapons.  
  
"Well, I've not much I can do for you, but I'll cook and skirmish from time to time," mumbled Sam, fumbling with his Barrow-blade, and resting it upon the weapons as the others before him had done.  
  
"Hobbits can do as much as anyone!" Merry took out his blade, and placed it upon the other weapons.  
  
"I'll show Elrond!" grinned Pippin with enthusiasm, doing the same. "I'm not just some ninth place-filler!"  
  
Frodo unsheathed Sting, and, with a slight smile to all the others, placed it on top of Pippin's blade.   
  
"For the Shire."  
  
Boromir slowly took from his side the Horn of Gondor, and, with a quick but meaningful glance at Aragorn, put it upon the pile of weaponry.   
  
"Gondor will be at your command. Through windstorm, through snowfall, through sunshine," he swore solemnly.   
Then, each holding the hilt of their blade, the end of their bow, axe and Horn, one single voice, comprised of nine whole voices, chorused clearly out in the early morning, and echoed all around.  
  
"For the Fellowship of the Ring!"  
  
* * *  
  
  



End file.
